We don’t blame the paper for being lined, We don’t blame the ink for doing the dirty work
All smells collide
sitting in a compost bucket
heart in a treetop on the sleeve of a red winged blackbird
a cacophony
the most beautiful sound is not silence
is not nothingness
is clattering
is calling
wings buzzing
diving for a chance at the red plastic flower feeder
in a bare dirt yard
at sunrise.
Posted on May 7, 2018, in love, love poems, luck, queer and tagged #lovepoems. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.
Excellent!
LikeLike